


Oh Lord, Bless this Bentley.

by CousinSerena, GayDemonicDisaster (scrapheapchallenge)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Blessing, Cars, Classic Cars, Comedy, Comedy of Errors, Crowley Being an Idiot (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is So Done (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Demonic Possession, Demons, Holy Water, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Old Married Couple, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queen - Freeform, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), The Bentley - Freeform, The Bentley Ships It, automatic car washes are even more evil and Crowley invented them, aziraphale is an idiot, be nice to your Bentley, blessed Bentley, car detailing indulgence by author, chattering order, chattering order of St Beryl, cursed Bentley, cursing, satanic nuns - Freeform, sponges are evil, the Blues Brothers - Freeform, the author is a petrolhead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23066404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinSerena/pseuds/CousinSerena, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapheapchallenge/pseuds/GayDemonicDisaster
Summary: Summary: when Crowley’s beloved Bentley gets accidentally washed in holy water, it undoes over 80 years worth of demonic miracles, with a plethora of unwanted side effects. Cue much chaos and ineffable husbands bickering over how to set things right again.This epic bit of Ineffable Husbands / Ineffable Idiots comedy chaos is atotal of 6 chapters.Co written by GayDemonicDisaster and CousinSerena. A gift for IneffableAlien, thanks for the inspiration, Plant Daddy!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 293
Kudos: 242
Collections: Amazing Good Omens





	1. Talkin’ ‘bout the carwash… (you know you sang it.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IneffableAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/gifts).



Crowley had many regrets. Demons should not have regrets really, go all-in, balls to the wall, get shit done, screw the consequences, that’s a demon’s motto, usually. 

But, oh, Crowley had all the regrets right now, and the uncomfortable burning sensation in his right buttock where the towel had slipped from underneath him was reminding him of that fact quite forcefully. He squirmed and tried to drive while simultaneously attempting to lift his right butt cheek off the car seat to ease the feeling that he was sitting on a dropped cigarette end. He was having to wear _driving gloves_ for Satan's sake. He still had blisters from before he’d figured that one out.

Bloody angel. He flung a venomous glare across in Aziraphale’s direction. He was, of course, oblivious. He was also a completely smug bastard. Crowley was not going to let him forget this. 

It had started a few weeks ago, he’d been driving them to an art exhibition opening when Aziraphale had grabbed at his arm as they passed a church, and shouted at him to pull over. He had, of course, although being a demon, he made sure it was on double yellow lines, because it wouldn’t do to go obeying road laws at his age. You had to keep up appearances. 

“Look, Crowley, it’s a charity car wash, we should stop and let them clean the Bentley!”

Crowley stared at him. 

Aziraphale looked back in faint puzzlement. 

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Aziraphale.”

“But it’s for a good cause, Crowley, look, it’s for Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children.”  
  
“I don’t care if it’s for retired strippers who have been left penniless by 419 scammers, Aziraphale, I’m not letting anyone touch the Bentley.”

“It’s just a car wash, dear boy.”

“And I can miracle the Bentley clean, I’m not having any kids with a load of filthy water and gritty sponges scrub swirl marks into my perfect paintwork. 80 years and not a scratch, and I’m not starting now.”

Aziraphale looked at him.

He looked at Aziraphale. Ok, glared. 

Aziraphale looked out of the window. 

“Oh, look! There’s a proper car detailer there, she’s teaching the children how to wash the cars properly, she’s supervising them, the Bentley will be fine, dear.”

Crowley looked out of the window. He took in the sight. Sure enough there were no hideous big yellow sponges. Each kid did indeed have two buckets each, wash and rinse, grit guards in the bottom, clean microfibre wash mitts. No washing up liquid, there were actual branded products on the table in the middle of the church car park. He sighed. He looked at Aziraphale again. 

Fuck it, those eyes again. He was doing the eyes thing. 

Damnit. Bloody angel. 

“ _Fine_.”

He blipped the throttle angrily and pulled into the car park with bad grace, stilling the engine at the free spot closest to the detailer’s van on the principle that it might get a bit of better attention there. The teenager standing next to the detailer stared at the Bentley open-mouthed in amazement. The detailer looked pretty surprised too, and raised a questioning eyebrow. This was the kind of stuff she was usually paid hundreds of quid to work on for two days straight, it seemed unlikely that anyone with a vintage classic like this would allow the local kids loose on it, so she resolved to make sure it was done extra carefully. It’d be a good learning experience for the kids. 

Aziraphale hopped out of the car happily, already reaching for his wallet to drop a donation in the bucket, beaming at the children. Crowley stepped out rather more warily, glaring at everyone in sight, and circled the Bentely possessively, making a show of checking it over before he let anyone touch it. This went against every instinct he had. He ran a hand over her front wing and muttered an apology to her under his breath. “Sorry, girl, but you know what he’s like, He did the _eye_ thing for fuck’s sake, you _know_ I can’t stand up to the eye thing. You’ll be fine.”

He sauntered threateningly over toward the table of products and equipment. The detailer had set them up with some pretty high end products, decent ph neutral car shampoo, a good polish, sealant, carnauba wax, the lot. He tried desperately to find fault but couldn’t really find anything to justify grumbling about. He sat down in a folding chair and glared at everyone from behind his shades while Aziraphale fluttered about chatting and smiling. 

The detailer handed a fresh wash mitt to the gangly teenage boy. “Here, David, I think you’ve had enough practise now, why don’t you do this gentleman’s nice Bentley?”

David, red eyed and puffy, sneezed. “Bless you” Aziraphale automatically responded.

“Sorry, hayfever,” David apologised, and went to re-fill the buckets at the tap by the wall, sneezing as he went. The vicar wandered over to chat to Aziraphale. 

“What a lovely car, sir, how long have you had it?”

“Oh, it’s not mine, it’s my friend’s.” He nodded at a surly Crowley sitting in the folding chair by the table, arms crossed over his chest, a thunderous look on his face. “Don’t mind him, he’s just in one of his moods.” The vicar nodded, understandingly. David staggered back over, carrying two large heavy buckets of water. 

“Oh, let me help you with those,” Aziraphale automatically stepped forward to take the weight off the poor kid’s hands, lifting the buckets off him easily. David sneezed again. “Bless you,” both the vicar and Aziraphale chimed in, automatically. David nodded thanks, and went to grab the car shampoo, to pour a few capfuls into one bucket. He sneezed again. “Bless you” came the repeated chorus. _This might become tedious_ , Crowley thought to himself. 

“You can put the buckets down for now, thanks” David told Aziraphale. “Don’t need them just yet, got to snow foam it first.” He picked up the pressure washer with a bottle and lance attachment, then forgot something. “Oh, sorry, tap… can you hold this for me a sec?” He handed the lance to Aziraphale, sneezed again and ran back to the tap as Aziraphae’s “bless you” followed him. Tap turned on, he came back and sprayed a thick white foam all over the Bentley, allowing the soapy covering to gently lift off any surface dirt, leaving it to dwell on the paintwork while he sprayed some non acidic wheel cleaner on the wheels and began brushing them and sneezing almost non stop. Aziraphale and the vicar did not appear to grow tired of blessing his sneezes. Crowley rolled his eyes.

This done, he grabbed the lance and rinsed off the snow foam, then set about with the two buckets and the microfibre wash mitt, as the detailer supervised. “Remember, start from the roof down, load up the mitt in the shampoo bucket, slosh it over, then rinse the mitt off in the rinse bucket, rub it over the grit guard in the bottom to get any contaminants out, squeeze it then back in the shampoo bucket again, keep repeating that.” 

Crowley had to grudgingly admit that the gawky teenager was actually doing a pretty good job of things. He rinsed it all down with the pressure washer again, dried it with some microfibre drying towels (not a squeegee, Crowley was gratified to see), then got moving with some polish, a polishing pad and more clean microfibres to polish off with, panel by panel. This done, he carried on with sealant and wax, stepping back to admire his handiwork with a happy smile on his face, still, of course, sneezing almost non stop. The detailer patted him approvingly on the shoulder. “Great job, David, I reckon I should take you on as my apprentice. Feel free to let me know if you want to come do work experience with me some time. Now go tell the nice gentleman his car is ready.”

David shyly approached Crowley, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the entire procedure, and gave a grudging nod of approval. “Yeah, good job, thanks.” He pressed a few extra notes into the kid’s hand in thanks and stood, stretching tall. “Come on then, get in, Angel.”

Aziraphale said his farewells to the vicar, who he’d been happily chatting to, and climbed in. Crowley felt a wave of unease as he sat down, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, and goose bumps broke out over his skin. He shivered uncomfortably. Maybe it was just the proximity of the church that was making him feel uncomfortable, probably best they got a move on. He tried to start the car. 

She wouldn’t start. This was unprecedented. She always started. She’d never had a breakdown in her life. He was shocked. _What the hell?_ Aziraphale looked at him questioningly. 

“Is everything ok, Crowley?”

“Uh. No. It isn’t actually. She won’t start” He looked at a loss. 

“Won’t start?”

“No! That’s what I bloody well said, Angel.” He sighed and stepped out, feeling embarrassed. He went to open the side of the engine bay, undoing the clips at the side and folding the panel up and out of the way. Not that he was sure what on earth he could find. He poked about a bit, experimentally. Maybe some water had got into the distributor cap or something, not that it should have stopped anything, it never had before, but there was a first time for everything. 

“Angel, scoot into the driver’s seat and try to start her for me while I look ok?”

Aziraphale did. He turned the key and the Bentley fired up immediately. Crowley stepped back and shrugged. He replaced the panel at the side of the engine bay and got back in as Aziraphale shifted back to the passenger seat again. “That was odd.”

He felt the horrible crawling feeling across his skin again as he sat down, and they drove off. The CD in the stereo, that had started life as the Velvet Underground, then of course a Best Of Queen album, seemed to have changed itself into a copy of “Jesus is my buddy” by American televangelist Marvin O. Bagman, and was currently blaring out “Jesus is the sticker on the bumper of my soul.” Crowley stared at the stereo in sheer confusion, as did Aziraphale. He turned it off. 

As he drove, Crowley became gradually more and more uncomfortable, he felt like he was getting sunburn on his hands, and his backside was feeling warmer and warmer. The Bentley was also not responding as she should. She was acting her age, quite frankly, something that Crowley had never let her do before. She wasn’t eager to barrel along at breakneck speed, but was rumbling along slowly, ignoring how hard he had his foot on the accelerator. He checked the handbrake wasn’t still on by mistake. It wasn’t. Maybe his brakes were binding on? But why would they do that? It was all too strange. 

Bloody hell, his arse was on fucking _fire_. 

No.. no, really it felt like it was on actual _fire…_

“FUCK!” 

He slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the car, patting his backside frantically. His hands hurt too. He looked at them. They were blistering. What the _hell_? He stared at the Bentley, it’s engine now running at a distinctly lumpy idle, she did not sound happy at all. She chugged on a few seconds longer, and then spluttered and died. Crowley stared, appalled. There was a strange popping sound and a squealing screech from the nearside.

“WHAT THE FUCK HAVE THEY DONE TO MY _CAR_?” He screamed. 

Aziraphale stepped out, and then stepped back in alarm when he saw the side of the car. “Crowley, what…?”

Crowley growled. “They’ve done something to her, what have they _done_ to her, Aziraphale?” 

“Well it didn’t look like this before I got in” retorted the angel. 

“Didn’t look like what?” Crowley stalked around to the passenger side and then staggered back, horrified. “What the fuck?”

The side of the front wing was stoved in, a long streak of blue paint and a cruel shimmer of bare metal where the Bentley’s own paintwork was scraped off. He recalled a certain blue velocipede that had hit the side of her some time ago. _BIcycle_ . He thought. _Bloody BIcycle_. He glared at it. He’d undone it, why was it back? He’d used a demonic miracle to heal the damage. He stepped back around the driver’s side and reached in to turn the lights on. Sure enough, only one lit up. He growled. 

Stalking back to the passenger side he snapped at the bodywork to miracle it back into perfection again. Nothing happened. He glared at his fingertips, then tried again. Nothing. He heard another pained screech.

“There’s another one, Crowley,” Aziraphale pointed out, helpfully. Crowley glared at where the angel was indicating - a streak of red paint on the chromed rear bumper. _Fucking Ford Fiesta_ , he thought to himself. _Just had to park in his bloody blind spot hadn’t it?_ He winced as he heard another sound of metal popping and flexing.

“There’s another over here, too,” The angel called from the other rear quarter. Crowley knew, with a sinking feeling, what he’d find there, some white paint and a huge dent from a run in with a Mercedes in the 1960s. He stomped around to the other front wing as well, and what do you know? The evidence of the 1941 bump with a Bugatti was also back in evidence. None of them would snap away. Indelible markers of his shame.

“I thought you said eighty years and not a scratch?” Aziraphale was asking, and the angel had _that_ look on his face as he said it. Sarcastic bastard. 

“Well there wasn’t, not after I’d fixed them.” Crowley growled, massaging his burnt hands together. Something strange was afoot. “Let’s see if we can get her started again.” He lifted the bent bonnet panel out of the way again and glared at the engine, daring it to displease him. He went to sit in the driver’s seat then leapt out again immediately, it was as if he’d sat straight on an electric hob top. He yelped. 

“What did they _do_ to her, Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale looked thoroughly confused. “What’s wrong, Crowley?”

“The seat, it’s burning!”

“Nonsense, it’s fine.” Aziraphale sat down in the driver’s seat and looked at Crowley as if he were a hamper, several sandwiches, a cheesecake and an entire colony of ants short of a picnic. 

“You start her then.”

Aziraphale did. The bentley purred into life. As soon as he stood up and stepped out of the car however, the engine spluttered and died again. “Um, do you have AA cover, perhaps?”

Crowley glared at him. “Of course I bloody don’t. Why would I need breakdown insurance, Angel?”

“Well, something like this seems like a good reason, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale snipped back sarcastically. Crowley narrowed his eyes at him and hissed. 

“She’s very much not fine, Angel. Besides, look at my hands!” He held them out for inspection. Aziraphale widened his eyes in shock at the sight.

“Oh, good lord. Whatever did you do to them?”

“Nothing except held the bloody steering wheel, My arse feels similar.”

“Well let’s call for a recovery service and get her towed home then you can get her fixed up.”

Crowley sighed and pulled his phone out, found a number and grudgingly signed up for an AA contract with an initial (uncovered) callout to begin with. He hung up. “They’ll be about two hours, she said.” he sat down on a low wall by the side of the road, then immediately leapt up again as his sore backside met the hard concrete. He settled down again rather more gingerly this time. Aziraphale sat down next to him. Crowley experimentally snapped at the dented panel again, nothing happened. The tyres were also looking rather perished and cracked, the sidewalls looked ancient.

“Have you ever changed the tyres on this, Crowley?” 

“‘Course not. Why would I do that?”

“Because they wear out over time, perhaps?”

“Why would they do that? I don’t let ‘em.”

“Well you’ve let them now.”

“No I didn’t. They’re just… being disobedient, that’s all.”

He snapped at a nearby sandwich board sign outside a shop. It fell over. So his power wasn’t gone then. It just no longer worked on his own damn _car_. 

“So where did all those dents come from then?”

Crowley grunted and ignored the question. 

They sat in silence for a while.

After a few minutes, two of the tyres deflated slowly with a gentle hissing sound. The Bentley settled down into the ground with a pained creak of sagging suspension.

“...Angel…?” Crowley began, tentatively, the cogs in his brain slowly turning.

“Mmm?”

“That car wash was in a church car park… No. That can’t be it, I’ve parked her in a church car park before and nothing happened...never mind.” he sat and mulled it over a bit. 

Aziraphale’s mind however was beginning to work on the problem as well. He stood up and walked over to the car, placing a hand on the roof, he closed his eyes and felt for something. 

_Oh dear._

He carefully removed his hand but didn’t dare turn back to face the demon yet. How on earth was he going to explain this one? _Bother._

“What is it, Aziraphale?” Crowley could see by the set of the angel’s body language that something was amiss. He knew something. 

“Um…”

“Out with it, Angel…” Crowley growled threateningly. 

“I, er… I think your car is, um, blessed.” Aziraphale whimpered, cringing. 

“BLESSED?”

“Um, yes, slightly blessed. I, um. I think when the Vicar and I were saying “bless you” to that unfortunate teenager with hayfever, I may have been holding the water buckets, and the power hose. I think I may have inadvertently blessed the water they used to wash her, I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley sat there agape. The angel had single handedly undone eighty years worth of demonic miracles with a _holy water car wash_.

“YOU!”

Aziraphale flinched. 

Crowley rose to his feet, pointing a trembling finger at Aziraphale, quivering with rage. “YOU BLESSED MY DAMNED CAR! _LITERALLY!_ ”

Aziraphale squeaked.

* * *

The AA patrol driver turned up to find two gentlemen at either end of a 1933 Bentley coupe, apparently having been chasing each other around it, yelling at each other. He pulled up behind them, put his hazards and amber flashing spin top lights on, stilled the engine and stepped out. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

They both stopped their tirade and stared at him. 

“Yes, well…” Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and flung a bitchy look in the demon’s direction. Crowley rolled his eyes at him. No, he rolled his whole _face_ and _body_ at him. Crowley could do full body sarcasm like no one else on earth. 

“Hi, I’m Barry. So the old girl’s ‘Ceased To Proceed’ eh?” He nodded toward the Bentley. He hadn’t had to use that line too often, but he’d been warned about it in training - how not to offend drivers of old Rolls Royces and Bentleys - they _never_ “break down”, ever. They simply “cease to proceed.” It was also tradition that a breakdown recovery truck driver should carry a tarpaulin to cover the emperilled Roller or Bentley with, to hide it’s shame at the indignity of being recovered on a breakdown truck of all things, if the owner so desired.*

“What appears to be the problem, gents?”

Crowley gritted his teeth, flung an icy glare at the angel, and wondered how you explained a case of a demonically powered antique vehicle having been blessed into oblivion by an angel because of a snotty teenager with hayfever. He settled for “Dunno.” and a particularly gallic shrug. 

Barry sighed and sat in the driver’s seat of the Bentley. He turned the key. Nothing happened. He got out and inspected the battery, the distributor cap, that all the spark plugs were securely seated, HT leads, fuel filter, turned the key and listened for the whine of the fuel pump. It sounded choked up. The fuel gauge was reading a quarter full, but he got his scope cam and fed it down the filler cap anyway. He recoiled in disgust and confusion. 

“When did you last fill this up?”

Crowley thought for a minute. 

“1967.” he replied. 

Barry stared at him, aghast. “Barn find, is it?”

Crowley realised what he’d just said, and cursed inwardly. “Oh, uh, yeah. Just bought it, was driving it home and it just stopped, yeah…”

“You got it to start on 53 year old petrol?” Barry was stunned. 

“Well, yeah, I mean it did, then it kind of didn’t.”

“I’m not bloody surprised” Barry retorted. “It’s like varnish in there, it’s all evaporated out into nothing. I’m amazed it started at all to get you this far, why didn’t you trailer it home?” 

Crowley shrugged. Barry sighed and withdrew the scope, stashing it back in the van with a shake of his head. The skinny redhead looked like he had more money than sense. What kind of idiot buys an antique classic car that’s sat in a barn since the 1960s and tries to drive it straight home, the thing was a wreck, the tyres were perished, almost every panel was dented. The best you could say about it was that it was clean.

“Well, chaps, looks like you’re coming home with me, I’ll get her winched on the fishtail and strap her down, would sir like her covering up?”

Crowley nodded, shamefaced. “Yes” he said in a very small voice, and climbed into the cab of the recovery truck after Aziraphale. Behind them, the wheel bearings had seized up and the brakes bound on, so that Barry had to winch the Bentley onto the lowered recovery ramp truck dragging it’s locked wheels up leaving two long streaks of rubber on the road.

Barry climbed into the cab after the Bentley was strapped down and her shame covered with the tarpaulin on the back of the truck. He got out his clipboard and started filling in details. “So which garage would you like her taking to?” Crowley looked stumped.

“Dunno, where do you suggest?”

Barry looked at Crowley’s address. “Well there’s the main Rolls Royce garage, Jack Barclay Bentley, just off Berkely Square, it’s not far from your house, would that do? You’d have to call ahead and let them know you’re bringing her in of course.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’ll do.” Crowley shrugged. He made the phone call, and then sat in stony silence the rest of the drive there, steadfastly refusing to look at Aziraphale.

* * *

The Rolls Royce and Bentley engineer walked around the Bentley, sucking wind through his teeth, in the universal “this is going to expensive” sound of tradespeople everywhere. He cast his eye over the dented bodywork and shook his head. 

“I’m afraid the panels will have to come off and go to a specialist panel beater, we can’t do that kind of bodywork here these days, it’s a dying art. There’s a place way up North that can do it, Carosserie up near Barnard Castle, that’s where the old royal cars get sent for stuff like this. It’ll take a few weeks at best though, and it’s not going to be cheap. I’ll have to get some of the older parts from P&A Woods. We can decoke the engine, clean out the fuel tank, put new fuel lines on, she’ll need a full service, new spark plugs, HT leads, battery, tyres, full engine flush, she’ll need changing over to an unleaded head, as she’s built for four-star petrol, she’ll not run on modern fuels. New brake lines, new brake pads and drums, the lot. I’m amazed it could even move.”

Crowley stared. He’d never had to visit a garage in his life. He was frankly embarrassed. 

“I’m not going to beat about the bush, sir, this is not going to be cheap. This is months of work you’re looking at.” 

Crowley glowered and flashed his black credit card. The engineer raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Be that as it may, sir, even with money no object, it’s still going to be weeks at a minimum, some things simply can’t be hurried no matter how much money you throw at a problem, terribly sorry, sir.”

“Do what you have to” Crowley hissed, and stalked out. Aziraphale hurried after him.

“Crowley…”

“Don’t.”

“But…”

“I said don’t, Aziraphale. Just… don’t.” He raised a hand and stomped off toward Mayfair, leaving the angel standing outside the dealership biting his lip anxiously. This was bad. 

Several weeks elapsed. Aziraphale hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the demon in all that time, and was becoming anxious. He’d gone to the dealership a couple of times to enquire about the progress, and used little miracles here and there where he could to speed things up when possible, but there was only so much he could do. How was he ever going to get Crowley to talk to him again? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This is actually true - the “cease to proceed” bit and the tarpaulin. Source: my aunt was chairwoman of Rolls Royce Enthusiast's Club for a while & has collected them for years. She also worked for the AA for a while.
> 
> Also, we know that this isn’t how you create holy water, simply saying “bless you” while holding a bucket doesn’t automatically make it holy. Doing the same while saying “in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti” however would, but it wasn’t as easy to work that into the comedy, so we are using good old fashioned literary fudge. Besides, Aziraphale is an angel and more powerful than a vicar, so maybe he can do it like that anyway, who knows?
> 
> American Televangelist Marvin O. Bagman is lifted straight from the book, as are his song names and the lyrics, credit to Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Marvin nearly made it into the series but was cut. He was going to be played by Patton Oswalt according to an interview with Neil.
> 
> Crowley's right buttock being singed by the seat is inspired by an old daily driver of ours, a horrible (definitely cursed) audi A4 avant estate. It'd been very highly specced when new, but ancient and broken by the time we got it. The cream leather seats were also heated, except the driver's seat had a fault and if you turned on the heating element, one particular spot would overheat so much it felt like you were sitting on a hot coal. Just turning it off didn't stop it immediatley as it took a few minutes to cool down again. Trying to drive along the M1 whilst hovering your backside an inch off the seat is not fun, lemme tell you. Yes I only did it once, once was enough.
> 
> Yes I am a complete petrolhead, I used to have my own car detailing business before I was disabled. I run the "Petrol head girls" page on facebook and have been in several car clubs for decades. 
> 
> Rolls Royce and Bentley are intertwined, owned by the same company for a very, very long time. Many are essentially the same vehicles with different badges, the parts are interchangeable between most of them. 
> 
> Car care tips of the day: 1: NEVER EVER use those automatic spinning brush car washes, they WILL destroy your paintwork and devalue your vehicle. 2: Never use sponges. Use lambswool or microfibre wash mitts. 3: Never use washing up liquid to wash your car, the salts in the solution damage and fade your paintwork. Use proper car shampoo. It's not about bubbles but lubricity. Apart from snow foam, regular car shampoo doesn't need to create lots of bubbles.


	2. Feelin’ hot, hot, hot. (you sang that one too…)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has his Bentley back, and she's fixed... or is she...? More predicaments, more ineffable bickering, Crowley calls in a favour, and is distinctly unfashionable. This ain't over yet, not by a long shot.

Crowley’s phone rang a few weeks later. His car was ready to collect. He walked down to the garage and circled her warily, eyeing the actually repaired and repainted panels, at least this time the damage couldn’t undo itself. The mechanic sat in the driver’s seat and fired the engine up, she purred into life. Crowley beamed happily. “That’s more like it.” The mechanic stepped out and held the door wide for Crowely to get in. He did.

… Then rather rapidly leapt out again with a squeal. He glared at the seat. 

_Shit._

The bloody seat still felt like hot coals. 

The mechanic was staring at him strangely. “Are you quite alright, sir?”

Crowley’s mind raced for an excuse. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, um, no, sorry, hurt my back, no, my, uh, my hip, yeah, my hip… the other day, fell over, still really sore, can’t sit on it properly, um, probably shouldn’t drive just yet, um…”

The mechanic continued to stare at him. 

“Could you maybe drive it home for me? Drop it off?”

“Certainly sir, not a problem.”

* * *

Crowley glared out of the window of his apartment at the gleaming Bentley parked on the street below. He had his car back, she worked, but he couldn’t drive her. He paced up and down his apartment, yelled at the plants a bit, paced some more then glared out of the window again. 

Behind him, a Roomba with googly eyes stuck on it trundled around the lounge. 

He stomped downstairs and sat next to the Bentley, glaring at her. 

“Come on,” he said to her, “be reasonable.”

The Bentley sat there, gleaming in the sunshine, saying nothing. 

Crowley grasped the door handle. Even that was beginning to hurt. He cursed and wrapped the sleeve of his shirt around his hand and tried again. It was easier. He had a thought.

He snapped his fingers and summoned a towel from his bathroom upstairs. He folded it and placed it down on the seat. He very gingerly sat down. So far, so bearable. He rested his hands on the steering wheel. 

Then he yelped sharply and sucked at his fingers, wincing. Fucking thing. 

He snapped up a pair of leather driving gloves from his closet, Azirphale had gifted them to him decades ago. He pulled them on and glared at his now very unfashionable hands. He tentatively touched the steering wheel. It was sore, but bearable, just. He sighed with relief. Well this was maybe do-able. 

He turned the key, and she started up happily, rumbling away smoothly. The stereo burst into life and Marvin O. Bagman burst into song:  
  
“Jesus won’t cut you off before you’re through,  
With him you won’t never get a crossed line,  
And when your bill comes it’ll all be properly itemized,  
He’s the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life,”

 _“Really?”_ he hissed at the Bentley. 

For fucks sake, what had happened to Freddie Mercury? Crowley ejected the CD and threw it out of the window. He rummaged in the glove box for another disc and shoved it in the stereo. It said “Mozart”, it should have been Queen, but instead Marvin’s familiar nasal American voice yelled from the speakers:  
  
“The phone line to the saviour’s always free of interference,  
He’s in at any hour, day or night,  
And when you call J-E-S-U-S you always call toll free,  
He’s the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life…”

Crowley cursed so loudly that the hedge next to the car spontaneously turned brown and shed all its leaves at once. He ejected the CD and flung it out of the car, then grabbed every other CD in the glove box and flung them out too. Queen was one thing, but American Christian Rock was quite another. He glared at the pile of discarded music on the tarmac next to the car, snapped his fingers and lit them all up in a small gout of hellfire. 

He pulled away from the kerb and planted his foot on the floor. Nothing happened. 

Well, nothing supernatural anyway. The Bentley gently rolled out into traffic at a crawl, and lumbered up to about twenty miles per hour. He changed down and mashed the throttle. She hesitated and the engine revved higher, edging the speed up a little, he changed up again, and eventually she attained a sedate thirty miles per hour, and stayed there. 

Crowley thumped the steering wheel. “What the bloody hell are you playing at, woman? _MOVE!”_

The Bentley ignored him and tootled along amiably, being overtaken by taxis of all things, bloody _taxis!_

OK, so she was fixed, by human standards, but she was still blessed. There was only one thing he could do.

He was going to have to talk to the angel again.

* * *

Crowley grumbled and turned back toward Soho, swearing under his breath as he did. 

The bell above the bookshop jangled and the door slammed back, bouncing off the doorstop so hard it rebounded and whacked Crowley in the face, rather spoiling the dramatic entrance effect he had been going for. Aziraphale came through to the front of the shop to find the demon swearing in muffled expletives, both hands clamped to his nose, which was bleeding. 

“Crowley?”

“Nnnnnnngggghhh!”

“Whatever is the matter, Crowley?” Aziraphale glanced out of the window to see the Bentley parked in its usual spot outside, clearly it was fixed then. So what was wrong with Crowley?

“Uhmbls’t n’gl!”

“Pardon?”

“UHM-BLSST, NN’GL!”

“Crowley I really can’t understand you, dear boy.”

Crowley hissed and wiped his nose. Aziraphale realised the problem and stepped forward. He lifted Crowley’s unresisting gloved hands out of the way firmly, and placed his own hand on the bridge of his nose.

“AAAARGGGH BLDDY’N’GL!”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, Crowley, let me fix it.”

Azirphale pulsed a little power through his fingers and healed up the demon’s broken nose, then snapped his fingers to miracle the blood away. “Now, what were you saying?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and sniffed. 

“I _said…_ ‘UN-BLESS IT, ANGEL’.”

“Un-bless it?”

“Yessss! That’s what I bloody said!”

“Crowley, you can’t ‘un-bless’ something, once it’s blessed, it’s blessed. Isn’t it fixed now?”

The demon held up his gloved hands in front of Aziraphale’s face as if in explanation. “Does this _look_ fixed to you, Angel?” 

“Oh, you’re wearing them!” Aziraphale beamed, delighted. 

“Yes, I’m bloody wearing them, because I can’t touch the sodding steering wheel without them, it’s bad enough _with_ them, the car drives like an antique bloody Bentley, a blessed demon proofed one at that. This is not a fucking fashion statement, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale looked hurt, he’d thought the driving gloves looked quite natty, and had been rather disappointed when Crowley had never worn them. 

“Well, at least they’ve come in handy, I see,” he tried, weakly. 

“Har bloody har, Angel, now _fix it!_ ” 

“I _CAN’T!”_

They stared at each other. 

“Well, then.” Crowley sniffed. 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Aziraphale tried. 

“You wot?”

“.. a new one?” Aziraphale tried again. 

“A… _new_ , bloody _Bentley_? Are you mad? I want MY car! I want her baaaaaack!” Crowley whined the last word piteously, voice breaking slightly. 

Aziraphale stood awkwardly, twiddling his fingers and desperately trying to think how to fix things. “Let’s have a cup of tea, Crowley, let’s work something out.”

“Tea?” Crowley spat. “Sure, that’ll fix _everything_ , that will, tickety fucking boo.” Nonetheless he stomped through to the office area and slumped down on the sofa in an untidy pile, looking utterly miserable, and peeled off the ridiculous driving gloves. 

Aziraphale returned from the little kitchenette after a while with two cups of tea and placed one carefully in front of the glowering demon, then backed away warily to the safety of his desk, sat, and sipped at his own tea, mind whirling. 

“I am so terribly sorry, Crowley…” He began. 

Crowley sneered. “Sorry doesn’t bring my Bentley back, Aziraphale.”

“I know, Crowley, we’ll think of something. It was an accident, you know. I’d never do something like that on purpose, and I am most terribly sorry that you got hurt in the process, dear boy.”

Crowley grunted noncommittally and gulped some hot tea. 

Aziraphale thought a bit more. “Do you suppose….” he began, hesitantly, “... we could, uh, perhaps re- _curse_ the Bentley again?” 

“Uh. I dunno. I could stand out there and swear at it I suppose, but I did that already and it didn’t do much fucking good.”

“Not curse _at_ it, Crowley, curse it, in general. Damn it.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. He hadn’t considered that as an option. 

“Well since Hell washed their hands of me I’m not exactly the most demonic demon around any more, not sure I ever was. The demonic power on the Bentley built up over decades, it wasn’t entirely a conscious decision, it just kind of happened, I rubbed off on her. I’d probably need a bit more demonic oomph to undo a blessing by an angel of all things.”

“Well do you know anyone who could help with that?”

Crowley considered. 

“Not anyone who’s still speaking to me, no. But I do know someone who might be able to find out for me. It’ll mean taking a clandestine trip, uh, down below again.”

“Well, we’d better get moving then, I suppose, hadn’t we?” Aziraphale stood up and brushed himself off, ready for action.

“You can’t come down there with me, Angel.”

“No, but I’m going to wait in the car until you get back.”

Crowley sighed and pulled his driving gloves back on again, he drained his tea and stood up, shot a look at the angel, and stalked outside. Destination: 201 Bishopsgate, Broadgate Tower.

* * *

Which brings us nicely back to where we came in...

* * *

The towel had bunched up under Crowley’s bony buttocks, and had left a bit of upholstery bare, and it was burning a distinctly uncomfortable patch into his right arse cheek. He squirmed and tried to lift himself up slightly, wriggling, then tried to reach down to tug the towel back into place underneath him. He only succeeded in moving it further out of place. Great, now even more of his arse was on fire. He whimpered. 

“Whatever is the matter, Crowley?”

“Nnnngh.”  
  
“That’s neither very descriptive, nor helpful. Enunciate, dear boy.”

“Towel’s slipped, it’s burning my backside, Angel.”

“Well pull over and put it back again.”

“Not stoppin’.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes theatrically at the exasperating demon. “Here, let me then…” He reached over as Crowley tried to stand up in his seat, accidentally blipping the throttle too much and making the engine rev aggressively. The noise made a boy racer in a souped up corsa VXR in the next lane interpret it as a challenge to race, and he blipped his throttle in response, grinning. Crowley glared at him and snapped his fingers. The corsa’s wheel fell off. 

“Will you stop _wriggling_ , Crowley? I’m trying to put the towel back.” Aziraphale’s hands were underneath Crowely’s backside, trying to straighten the towel as he hovered above the seat. His hands inadvertently occasionally making contact with the demon’s buttocks, which made Crowley’s eyes open wide and a peculiar whimper escape his lips at the thought of the angel handling his arse. 

“What’s the matter _now_ , Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded through gritted teeth as the demon’s backside temporarily sank back down toward the seat and the angel’s hands while he tried to drive. 

“Ngk”

“I see. No, in fact, I don’t. That’s not very articulate, Crowley.”

 _What was he_ _supposed_ _to say, for Satan’s sake? That he was suddenly fantasising about what else the angel could do with his hands and Crowley’s arse? Yeah, that one would go down like a lead balloon._

Eventually, Aziraphale had the towel back in place, withdrew his hands, and Crowley sank gratefully back onto the seat again, hunching over slightly to try to conceal the semi now hiding in his jeans from his illicit thoughts. 

It took them far too long for Crowley’s liking to get back to celestial and infernal HQ. He hadn’t been able to zoom supernaturally fast though the damnable London traffic like usual and he was almost biting at the steering wheel in frustration by the time they got there, or at least he would have been if he hadn’t wanted to burn his mouth as well. 

He parked up and left Aziraphale sitting in the car while he negotiated the downward escalator to Hell, stepping through the mirrored floor with practised ease, heading for a remote part of the subterranean office space that housed the disposable demons. He needed Eric. 

He hadn’t talked to Eric in a while, and he was going to have to resist the urge to punch the fucker in the face the moment he saw him, because last time he saw him, the bastard had been about to try to punch his _angel’s_ corporation in the face. He might be a demon, and the desire to punch an angel might be a commendable thing for a demon to do, but not _his_ angel. Regardless of whether Crowley had been inhabiting that angel’s body at the time.  
  
But of everyone in hell, Eric was the only one he could trust. He owed Crowley a favour, and was too lowly to be able to, or interested in, taking any kind of retribution on Crowley. But Crowley would have to be polite to him, at least until he’d got what he wanted. 

He stomped into the vast, dismally lit cube farm that housed the lesser demons, and navigated the labyrinthine passageways until he alighted outside Eric’s cube, straight out of a Dilbert cartoon, albeit with rather more screaming in the distance and worse lighting. Eric looked up from his ancient Amstrad computer with a whimper to see Crowley looming over him. 

“Crowley!” he yelped in alarm, cowering back in his squeaky-wheeled office chair. The armrest fell off with a clatter to the floor, unheeded. 

“Eric…” Crowley grinned evilly at him. “Just the demon I need to talk to.” 

The Disposable demon’s eyes swivelled in his head as he considered escape options. There weren’t any. Crowley leant down low over him, and placed a hand either side of his head on the chair back, bringing his face down close to Eric’s threateningly. 

“Remember that succubus, Eric?”

Eric’s eyes widened slightly, he swallowed and nodded nervously. “Uh, yes?”

“Fun, was she? You two had a good time together, I hear?”

Eric nodded again. Crowley had set him up on a date with the Succubus, someone that a lowly Disposable would never have had a chance with otherwise. 

“Well, you said you owed me one, Eric. Time’s come for payback. I need a favour…”

After he’d explained, Eric mulled it over, a little less anxious now. 

“I think I know a solution. Hang on, there’s a file somewhere…” He turned to the huge beat-up looking filing cabinet behind him.

“Really? A filing cabinet? It isn’t all on your computer?”

Eric shrugged. “Yeah well, we haven’t exactly modernized down here, y’know? Waiting for an upgrade.” He flipped through the files and finally pulled one out. “Aha! Here it is.” He placed it on the desk. The file was labelled BLESSED OBJECTS - CURSING.

“I can help but you’ll need a satanic ritual to do some of it, d’you know any satanists?”

Crowley barked a short laugh. “Let’s put that down as a firm ‘yes’, shall we?” 

Eric nodded. “OK, you’ll need a few of them to do it right, I’ll get some hellfire ash and a bit of boiling sulphur from the pit and bring it up top. How long d’you need to get your satanists together? I can meet you up top, just let me know when and where. Then the debt’s paid, yeah?”

Crowley nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.”

Then he considered for a moment. “Actually, I could use you for this next part. Can you get off here for a day, starting now? Make some lame excuse?

“They owe me a day off,” said Eric. “Did some overtime covering for Sam, down in the mailroom. I’m ready when you are.”

“Great,” said Crowley. “Oh, but one more thing. Grab a towel. You’ll need it.”

* * *

As they emerged from the lobby and back to the Bentley, Crowley stuck a finger in Eric’s face, glaring at him. “You are NOT to insult, jeer at, or provoke the angel in any way. You sit on your towel and remain silent the whole way until we drop him off. Understood?”

Eric licked his lips nervously and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Understood.”

Crowley and Aziraphale bickered the entire drive back.

“Absolutely not,” insisted Crowley. “Out of the question. No angels. This is _not_ a mission from God.”

“Please, Crowley, I feel I owe it to you. After all, this whole unfortunate circumstance is my fault.” 

“Yes, it is,” agreed Crowley. He wasn’t letting the angel get off easy. “ _Unfortunate circumstance_ ,” he muttered. 

But the angel looked so miserable that Crowley took a little pity on him. He did, after all, come up with the re-cursing idea. He heaved a great sigh and rolled his eyes as they arrived back at the bookshop where he’d drop the angel off. He stopped the car and put a hand over Aziraphale’s, which was resting on the angel’s thigh.

“Look, angel, I know you want to help. But this is a job for demons. And we’ll be handling Hellfire. Well, byproducts of Hellfire. And sulphur. You know, Helly stuff. Not safe for angels.” Aziraphale considered this and finally conceded.

“Well, won’t you at least come in? You and your friend can have a drink and use my phone to call your...er, Satanists.” He said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Satanic _nuns_ , angel. We’re getting the nuns back together. OW, FUCK!” Crowley cursed, his other hand had been resting on the steering wheel and even despite the gloves, the burning sensation had been getting stronger, especially through the thin driving gloves. Crowley glared at them and wondered what else he could do. He needed more layers between his hands and the wheel. 

Then he remembered the other distinctly unfashionable (or rather, too late to be fashionable) gifts that Aziraphale had occasionally given him over the years. Like the fluffy faux leopard print steering wheel cover and seat cover set that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the 1970s, but unfortunately were gifted to him in the late 1990s instead, and had remained, unopened, in the box, in a cupboard ever since. 

Fuck it, he was going to have to use them, wasn’t he? Crowley sighed and snapped them into his hands from their hiding place in his flat. Aziraphale looked delighted. “Oh, you still have those too!”

Crowley studiously avoided eye contact and wordlessly unpacked two of the seat covers, passing one to the angel. “Would you mind, when you get out, putting this on your seat so Eric can sit there after? I’ll do mine and the steering wheel. Fold the towel up underneath the seat cover, it needs more padding now, and it’ll keep the towels from shifting about.” 

Aziraphale caught the miserable look on Crowley’s face and refrained from commenting further. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will upload on Thursday, be sure to hit "subscribe" to be notified when it uploads.


	3. We’re getting the nuns back together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of demons find out what a bunch of Satanic nuns might decide to take up as an alternative career to tarnish more souls for hell after being disbanded, as they round up the old crew together.

Crowley and Eric pulled up to the Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Center, formerly known as the Chattering Order of St Beryl’s. They parked and stepped out of the blessed Bentley. Crowley was overcome with a sense of deja vu, recalling the last time he’d been here. Today there was no paintball war.

“Kinda spooky,” commented Eric as he looked around. “I like it.”

“Spooky fan, are you?” Crowley smirked.

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” he sighed. _The angel would’ve gotten it._

He handed Eric an extra pair of sunglasses. He had a limited supply now that the Bentley had stopped providing miracled ones from the glove compartment any time he needed.

“What’re these for?” asked a bewildered Eric. “My eyes are regular looking.” 

He had a point. It was his horn hair that was going to attract attention, but Eric would already pass as human. Still, there were standards to be met.

“The glasses are so we look cool,” explained Crowley. “ _That_ ,” he said waving at Eric’s head _, "_ just makes you look like a prat. _"_ Now remember, let me do the talking. You just nod and follow my lead.”

“Right,” said Eric. “Hang on, what did you need me to come along for, then?”

“Muscle. Backup. In case things go sideways and one of these Satanists decides to try something.”

“But then you shoulda brought the angel!” Eric protested.

“The angel,” said Crowley between gritted teeth, “could get hurt. _You_ , on the other hand are…” _How could he put this delicately? He couldn’t._

“Disposable,” muttered Eric. “Yeah, I get it.”

They put on their sunglasses in unison and approached the front entrance.

“Right,” said Crowley. “So we’re looking for Mary Hodges, formerly Sister Mary Locquacious of the Chattering Order.”

The front door was open and they were able to walk right into the lobby where a woman sporting a sleek dark bob and a crisp business suit sat hunched over a notebook at a desk. Crowley was surprised. He rather thought they’d be greeted by a receptionist, but there she was. Sister Mary herself. She looked up and immediately recognized Crowley with a start. She looked extremely nervous, and then Crowley remembered that he and the angel had wiped her memory of their second meeting. As far as she knew, this was the first time she’d seen Crowley since the botched baby business.

“M-master Crowley?” she said incredulously. She glanced at Eric briefly. “Whatever brings you here now? This is no longer--”

He raised a hand to stop her. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s the Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Center. Paintball fights. Believe me, I _know_.”

“Oh,” she said, her face lighting up. “Are you here for a Demonic team building weekend?” she breathed excitedly. Before Crowley could answer, she launched into her promo. “Because if you are, there’s no better place for it then here, as you know, Master Crowley, the ground here is DEconsecrated, so it’s really the perfect place for Hellish staff development activities. And it’s not just about paintball, no Sir, not at all. I should know because I’m the director here now. Did you know that, Master Crowley? Yes indeed, I’ve been running the place for years now. Repaired, rebuilt and rebranded the place. And let me just say what an honour it would be to have you and…” here she paused to glance at the other demon.

“Uh, Eric,” he answered.

“Ah, yes, perfect. What an honour it would be to have you and Demon Eric to--”

“Stop! Confound it, woman,” Crowley interjected, “We’re not here for demonic team building. We’re here because we’re on a mission. We’re getting the nuns back together.”

“Oh,” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “Oh my. Oh, but Master Crowley, you know I haven’t been with the Chattering Order for a good decade now. And the others…”

“Yes,” said Crowley, eagerly. “The others. Do you know where they are?”

Mary brightened.

“Oh, but of _course_ I know where they are, Master Crowley. We have lunch, some of us. Oh, goodness knows it’s not a regular thing, but we’ve met up at some of the loveliest places. In fact, just a fortnight ago, several of us met up at that new restaurant with all the rave reviews and we chatted about this and that for hours on end. You know how we do all love a good chat...”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be worse than any torture Hell could think up.

* * *

An hour later, Crowley sat back in the Bentley and looked at the list of names and addresses that Mary had given them. First on the list was the former Sister Theresa Garrulous, now living over in Oxford with a banker husband, three kids, 2 dogs, a cat, and a hamster apparently. It had been hard to get Mary to shut up about her former colleagues, but then all of the nuns had been encouraged, as a chattering order, to never do so save for breath, food and sleep, and to say whatever was on their minds at all times. 

When they pulled up outside Theresa’s house, Crowley indicated the piece of paper from Mary that Eric was gripping in his lap.

“Right, Mary said that Theresa is now working as… what did she say it was again?”  
  
“MLM ‘boss babe’?” Eric volunteered, peering at the piece of paper. "What's that?"

Crowley looked wary. 

"Multi Level marketing, pyramid schemes, You know, like Herbalife, Scentsy, LulaRoe and that lot. They sell you stuff and get you to sign up to sell more stuff, and recruit all your family, friends, neighbours, colleagues and long lost school friends to do the same. Why the fuck did I come up with that one? This might be harder than I thought.”

Crowley levelled a firm look at Eric. “Remember, leave the talking to me, ok?” Eric nodded, hesitantly. He wasn’t used to interacting with humans and he was already feeling rather bewildered by Mary’s chatter. 

Crowley stepped out, peeled off his gloves again and gritted his teeth, rolled his shoulders and crunched his neck from side to side. 

“Right…” he stated, firmly, and knocked on the door. 

Two hours later, they finally escaped. 

Eric stepped out, laden down with several bags, containing a selection of essential oils, herbal supplements, slim shakes, wax melts, cleaning products, dubiously decorated leggings and cosmetics, and looking thoroughly, utterly bamboozled.

Crowley looked at him and sighed. “I _told_ you to let me do the talking.”

Eric opened his mouth to speak. Crowley cut him off before he even began.

“...And don’t even _think_ about asking Aziraphale to sign up to buy stuff from you or I will _personally_ smother you in raw steak and set the hellhounds on you.”

* * *

Next on the list was Grace Voluble, proprietor of Grace’s Garage used car dealership. Crowley levelled a look at Eric as they pulled up outside. “And if you try walking out of here with a second hand Ford Escort, I’m giving you a haircut.” Eric grasped at his bunny ears protectively, and nodded. 

Grace was rather more down to earth, but no less voluble. She was talking to an angry customer who was fighting a losing battle over trying to get his money back on a car she’d sold him. 

“The RAC breakdown guy said he’d never seen anything like it, it shouldn’t even be road legal, the MOT was a pile of fiction the likes of which haven’t been seen since Dickens, the tyres were bald, the speedo had been clocked and half the warning lights on the dash had the bulbs removed so they wouldn’t light up!” The customer was yelling. 

Grace was giving as good as she got and shouted over him. “They just want you to sign up for extra cover, load of bollocks that was, that MOT centre has been doing tests for me for years, honest as the day’s long, the tyres were fine when you drove it out of here, you must have been doing burnouts with them, the speedo’s just a bit glitchy, and how was I to know about the dash lights? You probably did that yourself!” 

“Yeah? Well see what you think when I get Trading Standards to investigate you then!” the customer yelled back and stormed out. Grace looked temporarily defeated, then brightened up when she saw Crowley and Eric walk in, and spotted the Bentley outside.

“Come to trade that in, have you? I’ll give you a grand on trade-in on that 5 series beemer if you like, sight unseen.” Crowley glared at her, then flicked his shades off. Suddenly a memory from over a decade prior nudged Grace’s consciousness and she gasped. 

“It’s Master Crowley!” Her eyes went wide and she was temporarily speechless. 

“Yes, it’s me, and the Dark Lord has more work for you” Crowley lied smoothly. “We’re getting the nuns back together, and you’re going to help curse that car out there.”

“Curse it?”  
  
“Yes. Simple enough job for a bunch of satanists to carry out. It’s been blessed by an angel and it needs undoing. Mary gave me your address, you’re all to meet up at Tadfield Manor tomorrow night, clear?”

Grace nodded. “Yes, Master Crowley.” But she couldn’t resist as he turned to leave, calling after him. “I can do you a deal on an Autoglym lifeshine package for that Bentley for you!”

Crowley stopped in the doorway. He turned slowly on his heel to pin her with a thousand watt glare. “ _No one_ is ever going near that car with detailing products again, _ever_.” He hissed menacingly. Grace’s knees checked out and she collapsed back into her office chair wordlessly.

* * *

Crowley consulted the list. Maria Verbose - Inland Revenue tax investigator. This one might be difficult. He pulled his gloves back on and fired up the Bentley, then set off to the tax office. He snapped his fingers to roll back the double yellow lines outside and miracled up an official looking briefcase before stepping out of the car. He approached the reception desk with a winning smile and Eric slightly behind him. 

“Good afternoon, we’re here to speak to Maria Verbose, revenue investigation team. This is an infernal audit.”

The receptionist glanced up. “Infernal? Don’t you mean internal?”

Crowley dropped his shades slightly and looked at her over them, dropping a dollop of demonic persuasion into his words. “I meant what I said, Jessica, and unless you want the whole office to know about you and Carl from building services, I suggest you buzz us in.”

“How did you know my name? Are you the police?”

Crowley pushed his shades back up his nose and stood straighter.

“No, Ma’am, we’re demons.”

Maria was rather excited to get back to her satanic roots and to get the chance to meet up with old colleagues again. It didn’t take much demonic persuasion to drag her away from her tedious job double checking numbers all day. They left her with instructions and moved to the next name on the list.

* * *

Crowley curled his lip in disgust. “Do we really need a fifth one?” 

Eric looked at him in confusion. “We need as many as we can get really, why?”

“Sister Katherine Prolix, was one of the midwives at the satanic hospital, now she’s a bloody Work Capability Assessment assessor for the Department of Work and Pensions. Honestly, even _I_ refused to take credit for that one, even Hell couldn’t think up anything as evil as that bunch of bastards. Why are all these nuns working in such soul destroying jobs?” Eric looked at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Did you hear what you just said?” the Disposable Demon asked.

Crowley paused and thought about what he’d said. “Oh yeah. Makes sense I suppose. I guess they’re carrying on spreading discord and misery to carry on the satanic tradition.” He shrugged. “Let’s go see her then, what’s the address? Let’s make a little trouble while we’re at it.”

They pulled up outside Caxton House, a depressing office block, and sauntered in, a hefty dose of demonic intervention distracting the security guards and making the cctv glitch out as they walked in unchallenged. Crowley approached the reception desk and asked for Katherine’s office. The surly blonde behind the counter glared at him. 

“No.”

“Pardon?” blinked Crowley.

“No. We don’t give out floor numbers or office details. You don’t have an appointment.”

“Yes I do.” Countered Crowley, pushing forth an extra dose of demonic persuasion in his voice. It bounced off her ironclad attitude however without effect. 

“No.”

“Well how do I get an appointment then?”

“Call the premium rate phone line, ask for the forms, when they arrive in the post, fill in the forms, return them in the prepaid envelope then wait six to eight weeks for a response. If you don’t get a response in that time, then call the number again and someone will look for you.” She promptly appeared to switch off and went back to idly tapping at her computer as if Crowley had ceased to exist. 

Crowley was growling under his breath. He reached out one slender finger to touch the top of her computer monitor and sent a crackling surge of electricity through the entire system, frying the circuitry and popping capacitors in an explosion of sparks and acrid blue smoke. As the receptionist flailed for a fire extinguisher, he dragged Eric past and toward the stairwell. Once there he removed his jacket and passed it to the Disposable Demon. 

“Hold that, and gimme a stack of paper from the briefcase.”

Eric passed him a sheaf of papers. They were just printer test pages with meaningless blurb on them. Crowley rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the sheaf of paper in one hand and set a determined look on his face. “You wait outside, I’ll have to do this one on my own.” He stormed off at a brisk pace with an annoyed look on his face, brandishing the stack of important looking paperwork in one fist, and approached the first person he saw. 

“Katherine Prolix, which floor is she on? Got some urgent paperwork for her from upper management.”

The office worker took in Crowley’s stressed and determined expression and hastily responded “uh, I think she’s on floor 6.” Crowley nodded firmly then stormed off. People rarely messed with someone with rolled up sleeves, carrying bits of paper with a determined look on their face, especially when they carried a vibe that said that they had problems which they were willing to turn into other people’s problems at the drop of a hat. 

He strode past a mail room where admins were opening envelopes of submitted forms and arbitrarily putting half of them on a trolley to go to the correct departments, and randomly dropping the other half into a wastepaper bin for shredding. Crowley snapped his fingers and all the shredders jammed and stopped working. He smirked and carried on. 

He found Katherine’s office after a brief search and was gratified to see a flash of fear in her eyes as she recognised him. “Master Crowley?” she whimpered. Crowley smiled grimly at her. 

“That’s me, and I think it might be time for a bit of a career change, don’t you? This is a bit evil even for satanists, isn’t it?”

Katherine bit her lip nervously, then nodded. “I know, I didn’t realise how bad it’d be, I’ve been looking for another job, honest, I’ve applied for a few, but I’ve been kind of stuck here…”

Crowley thought for a moment. “Come with me, help me out with something with a few of your former colleagues, walk out of here and I’ll make sure whichever job was on the top of your list that you applied to, you’re going to get it, deal?” 

Katherine nodded gratefully. “I suppose I should write a letter of resignation then?”

Crowley allowed a slow grin to suffuse his features. “I wouldn’t bother, not with what I’m about to do with your computer logins anyway. Don’t worry, it’s not going to affect your chances at your next job, I’ll make sure of that.”

He reached over and tapped at her keyboard for a little while, humming a happy little tune. He’d had a long time to learn things about modern technology as it developed, and his demonic abilities helped where his knowledge fell short. After a few minutes the entire backlog of pending assessments in the folder found themselves marked as approved instead of denied, and a determined little virus began munching it’s way through the rest of the system doing the same to every computer in the building. A lot of very stressed disabled people were going to get a rather happier brown envelope on their doormats the next day and could stop worrying for a while. 

“Right, we’re out of here, come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

* * *

The last name on the list was Judy Palaverous. Now a traffic warden in London. Crowley used a combination of dashing good looks, flirting and some demonic persuasion to find out her regular beat, then parked up to wait. They didn’t have to wait long. Judy strode up the pavement already beginning to enter his car details on her handheld computer before he stepped out and leant against the Bentley casually. He then flinched at the uncomfortable sensation, remembered himself, and leant against a wall instead. 

“What’s the ticket for then?”

She didn’t look at him. “Parking on double yellows.”

“Really? I don’t see any.” Crowley remarked idly. 

Judy looked down. She’d been patrolling this street for years and she knew the hotspots like the back of her hand, but sure enough, when she looked down, it appeared that the markings had been repainted, they stopped just short of the antique Bentley, and when she looked at the back end of it, began again just after. She blinked. 

She considered the Bentley, she looked up again at Crowley, short hair now, different shades, but, oh Satan… She dropped her handheld computer and whimpered. “Master Crowley?”

Crowley grinned at her. “We’re getting the nuns back together. Got one last job for you all, no babies involved.” At this point Judy noticed Katherine waving at her from the back seat of the Bentley. She nodded dumbly. 

“Excellent, tomorrow night at Tadfield Manor.” Crowley got back in the car and sped off. The double yellow lines rolled neatly back to their original position and Judy leaned heavily against the wall in disbelief. 


	4. Five Gallons of Your Finest Benzine, Dear Sir!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons do NOT pay at the pump, thank you very much!  
> Barry makes a reappearance as our demons slowly and painfully make their way to Tadfield.

It almost felt like the old Bentley, Crowley thought as he drove along, coming up to junction 2 on the M40. Almost, except for the hideous fluffy seat and steering wheel covers, and the fact that he couldn’t get the old girl past 40 mph.

And then the unthinkable happened. 

The Bentley began to cough and splutter, jerking with an intermittent loss of power. Crowley stared down in alarm at the instrument panel, something he’d never bothered doing before, because there was never any information there he needed to know before. His car just _worked_ , damn it. 

The Bentley jerked a final time and coasted. Realising he had no engine power, Crowley dipped the clutch and guided her gentle roll onto the hard shoulder before coming to a stop, as huge articulated lorries thundered past, honking in displeasure at them. 

“Why’d we stop?” asked Eric, bemused. 

Crowley glared at the dashboard. The fuel gauge was pointing at empty. That had never mattered before, but of course it mattered _now_. He’d never had to fill up with petrol. He’d only done it the once, in 1967, to get the free James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfers, which he rather fancied at the time. He’d stuck some of the stickers in the driver’s side quarterlight, but they’d long since peeled off. 

Anyway, the garage had filled it up for him before giving it back, and he’d completely forgotten that it was something that humans had to do with regular cars, seeing as he’d never had to do it before himself. Crowley half heartedly attempted to snap some fuel into the tank, but in it’s blessed state, the miracle merely bounced off the car and fizzled into nothing. He sighed and reached for his phone. 

Barry heard a ding and placed his Greggs sausage roll aside on the dashboard, glancing at the small computer screen mounted by the stereo. A new job had come in out on the M40 and he was the closest patrol. He sipped at his tea and read through the details. He got to the make, model and registration and groaned, resting his hand on his forehead. Not that bloody idiot again. Definitely more money than sense right there. He wondered if the guy had got it properly fixed or just bodged it together. He hit accept on the job, finished his sausage roll in two bites and pulled out into traffic. This should be good for a laugh if nothing else.

He pulled up a little while later to the antique Bentley at the side of the road, hazards on, this time the red haired skinny guy was accompanied not by the blonde fussy looking one, but by a younger guy with a crazy hairstyle. Both wore the same ridiculous sunglasses even though it wasn’t sunny and it was getting dark. They sat on the armco barrier at the side of the motorway. The owner, the “Mr Crowley” looked suitably embarrassed. Even more so when he recognised Barry. He hung his head and avoided eye contact. 

Barry sighed and put his flashers on, stepping out to see what was up. “Hello again, sir. What appears to be the problem then?” he knew already of course, as the job had said it was a run out of petrol issue. Barry was just being a bit of a bastard and wanted to hear the idiot confess it himself. 

“Rnoutaptrl,” he mumbled.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Runnoutaptrl”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t quite hear you over the traffic.” Barry tried to keep a straight face.

“I ran out of _petrol_ ” Crowley snapped, petulantly, glaring at the human. The younger lad with him just looked baffled. 

“I see. Got it all fixed up though, otherwise?” Barry ran an approving eye over the repaired bodywork. It looked like it’d had a lot of money spent on getting up to scratch at least, body panels repaired, repainted, brand new tyres, the lot. “Did they also clean out the fuel lines and tank for you, sir?” He queried, as he wanted to be certain, given the previous state of the car, that the fuelling problem wasn’t just a case of it having fuel, but it not being able to get through the old clogged-up fuel lines and ancient filter. 

Crowley glowered. “For the amount I paid, they bloody better have, because the bastards charged me for new fuel lines and tank cleaning on the mile-long bloody bill.”

Barry nodded. “Well, let’s get her loaded up again then shall we? I can drop you off at Beconsfield services which is the next one ahead, then you can refuel and get on your way.”

He made sure to cover the Bentley up with the tarpaulin again. Mr Crowley sat in the cab in an embarrassed silence the entire five minutes trip there. On arrival, Barry pulled into the fuel station area and unloaded the Bentley. “We’ll have to push her to the pump over there though, I’ll give you a hand, sir.”

Crowley sat in and steered while Eric and Barry pushed the Bentley the few yards to the pump, then Barry held out the clipboard for Crowley to sign off on the recovery, and made to head off. As he stepped on the footplate to get up into the cab of his recovery truck he saw Crowley looking around as if lost, making no effort to refuel the car. Barry paused to watch. The redhead appeared to be looking for someone. After a minute, Barry stepped down again and ambled back toward him. “Are you ok, sir?”

Crowley was confused. “Where’s the person who puts the petrol in for you?”

Barry stared in polite incomprehension. Did this guy honestly not even know how to refuel his own damn car? He’d heard there was a place in America where they still had full service pumps only by law, but self service had been the only way to get your fuel in the UK for decades, certainly since before this guy was born. 

“Uh, you… _do_ have a driving licence, don’t you, sir?” he asked, hesitantly. 

“Of course I bloody do.” Crowley snapped back. It was, startlingly, true. He’d had to get one once government systems started demanding such things as part and parcel of all the paperwork needed to run cars legally, but after the first test, he just re-took it every few decades when he did all the persona upgrade stuff required to keep humans he interacted with over longer periods of time believing he was his own damn son.  
  
He couldn’t be bothered to actually re-take the test every time though, so instead he’d mind manipulate the examiner into thinking he’d done a full driving test while all they’d really done is sat in the car park for a while as Crowley read the paper and drunk coffee next to the catatonic examiner in the passenger seat. 

“But you don’t know how to refill your tank…?” 

Crowley looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Um…” He stared at the horizon. “...No.”

Barry was incredulous, but he wasn’t paid to belittle customers, so he sighed and stepped toward the pump. “Do you have a credit card, or cash?” he sighed. 

Crowley plucked his credit card from his pocket and waved it at him. 

“Right, well, pick “pay at pump” on the screen here, see…?” Barry began. 

Several minutes later, after Barry had driven off, Crowley slid sheepishly into the driver’s seat and settled down. Eric glanced across at him. Crowley tipped his head sideways to glare at the Disposable demon.

“If you so much as mention the merest _hint_ of this to _anyone_ , Eric, _especially_ the angel, I’ll curse you so that whenever you open your mouth all you can do is sing songs from “the Sound of Music.” 

Eric’s eyes went wide and he leaned back, mouth extremely firmly shut, nodding hurriedly. 

“Right.” Crowley growled, and put it in gear. “It’s 40 miles to Tadfield, we got a full tank of petrol, half a pack of wax melts, it’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses.”

Eric nodded. “Hit it.”

Crowley hit the stereo “on” button. Marvin O. Bagman’s nasal twang singing “Happy mister Jesus” blasted through the speakers. Crowley flinched and swore. Eric looked incredulous. Crowley growled and wrenched at the control knob until it was silent again. They drove off in silence.

At least until Crowley started humming the Peter Gunn theme quietly under his breath.


	5. Oh Dark Lord, Curse this Bentley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Crowley and Eric have everything they need to perform the re-cursing ritual on the Bentley with the Chattering Nuns' help. Keeping Aziraphale safely away from all the hell-y stuff, Crowley prepares to give it a try. 
> 
> Big thanks to my co-conspirator CousinSerena for taking sole responsibility for this lovely chapter, I love what she's done with the idea. GDD <3 
> 
> I also promise we're nearly done with the Blues Brothers references ;)

They finally pulled up to Tadfield Manor, after what had been a Hellish (even by a demon’s standards) 40 mile drive. Having Eric as a passenger was like driving with a young hyperactive child. He’d played with his bag of samples from Theresa Garrulous nearly the whole way. He sniffed the wax melts and kept sticking them under Crowley’s nose to sniff. After thrusting a Pineapple Coriander under his nose, Crowley hissed.

“Stick another one of those things under my nose to smell and I’m going to demonically shove them all up your arsehole, then light them.”

That had made him go quiet and pout until he started playing with the cosmetics. After applying the Flaming Fuchsia lipstick and asking if Crowley thought it complemented his complexion, he then drank the entire can of chocolate slimming shake. Apparently it did not agree with him.

Ten minutes away from Tadfield, Crowley had sniffed and growled, “Bless it all! I thought that hot sulphur was in a slow cooker with the lid on. Why am I smelling--”

He glared at Eric. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he hissed.

Eric shrunk down in his seat. “Sorry, boss.” He sat still and silent the rest of the way… well mostly silent, except for the occasional sounds of intestinal distress.

As they pulled up to the former home of the Chattering Order, Crowley could see the group of nuns already gathered there. They were clustered together, in their old nun’s habits, apparently chattering away. They had painted a large circle in the courtyard, which had been cleared. Within the circle, various sigils had been painted.

“The sigils,” said Eric, “they’re a bunch of things. There’s the ones for cursing, and the ones for power, and there’s your own personal sigil of course, with the serpent and the..”

“I know my own sigil,” snapped Crowley. He hadn’t forgiven Eric for gassing them out after that damned shake.

Crowley could see even at a distance that besides the other sigils, someone had even carefully hand painted the Bentley logo. He rolled the car into the circle and parked in the centre of it. The nuns made their way toward him and Eric, chattering and hands fluttering excitedly.

“Oh, Master Crowley,” gushed Sister Mary, “this is so exciting, all of us Sisters back together again. And we owe it all to you, Master Crowley, and of course your handsome young friend here,” she added. She nodded and winked at Eric, who grinned delightedly. 

  
“Yes, yes,” groused Crowley. We’re not here for a damned tea party.”

He surveyed the group of nuns, their eager faces looking at him expectantly. He hissed as he noticed Sister Theresa’s habit. She had emblazoned her wimple with some embroidery. “Ask Me How YOU Can Have Your Own Business.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling his first headache may be coming on.   
“Right,” he barked at the group. “Let’s get going. First, you lot need to get your head in the game. Then….what’s next?” he asked Eric. The disposable demon consulted his file. “We need candles all round the circle,” he said.

“Right, ‘course. Candles. Sister Mary?”

“Oh my, but Master Crowley. I don’t have candles!” she said, practically wailing. “Not anymore.”

Sister Theresa and Eric spoke up in unison. “I have candles!”

Eric ran back into the Bentley and pulled out the wax melts just as Theresa pulled some from within her nun’s robe. “I was going to give these to everyone as a sort of party favour, along with my card, you know, free samples and all that..”

“All right, all right!” Everyone put the bloody scented wax melts round the circle. Now!”

Soon enough the circle was practically ablaze, the mixed scents of lilac, passionfruit, gardenia and coconut filling the air. 

Eric now pulled the slow cooker from the Bentley while Crowley grabbed out the Hellfire ashes which Eric had hurriedly swept into a filing box from the office. Eric then handed out copies of the ritual to everyone, followed by portions of ash for everyone which were in paper Costa coffee cups from the petrol station. 

Everyone took their places around the circle.

Sister Mary, the de facto leader of the remaining nuns, cleared her throat and intoned:

“Our Father who art in Hell, Cursed be Thy name…”

“Wait,” yelled Crowley. He snapped his fingers. A portable CD player appeared in one of his hands, a Best of Queen CD in the other hand. Everyone looked at him, utterly confused.

“For the ash and sulphur thing,” he said. “We need the proper music. Mood music, you know. Besides, the old girl might recognize it. Might help her remember, get back to her proper self.” He inserted the CD and pressed play. The strains of “Bohemian Rhapsody” filled the air.

Mary Loquacious began the opening prayer again, the others joining in:

“Our Father

Who art in Hell

Curséd be thy name

Thy kingdom upon earth has come

Thy will be done in hell as it is on earth

Grant us your power and might

And lead us into temptation

Deliver us unto evil

Thine is the kingdom of earth

The power and the glory

Forever and ever

So it is done.”

Then they looked at their mimeographed rituals (Hell’s office equipment dated from approximately the 1950s) for the next bit. Everyone looked at Eric.   
“Right,” he said, nervously clearing his throat and then loudly intoning, “And now we join in anointing this most egregiously Blessed car with the ashes of pure and true Hellfire. Let us begin.”

They entered the circle and approached the Bentley with their coffee cups of ashes. As they all circled the Bentley counterclockwise, shaking the ashes over the Bentley, the music played:

_ “Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening me _

_ Gallileo, Gallileo _

_ Gallileo, Gallileo _

_ Gallileo Figaro, magnifico…” _

As the tallest, Crowley sprinkled his ashes over the roof of the car, silently thanking Someone there was no wind. 

_ “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me _

_ For me _

_ For meeee…” _

When the ceremony of the ashes was done, Eric carefully opened the slow cooker (which miraculously was powered on this whole time despite not being plugged in). The overpowering smell wafted over the entire group. The nuns all choked on the stench. By now, Bohemian Rhapsody had ended and all was silent. The tension and anticipation hung in the air along with the foul odour. It was time for the last part of the ritual.

“Smells just like your fucking fart,” Crowley muttered at Eric. The nuns had to stand back at the outer edge of the circle. Only the demons could risk handling the boiling hot sulphur. 

“How d’you want to do this, boss? I mean,” he said with his voice trembling a bit, “I mean, so we don’t get burnt too bad. I know I’m disposable and all…” he trailed off.   
Crowley sighed. He actually felt a bit sorry for him. 

“Look,” he said, putting a hand on Eric’s shoulder. The ridiculously coiffed demon looked like he was about to  _ cry _ , for Satan’s sake. “She’s my car. Let me do this. You go lead the nuns saying the ritual. Alright, mate?”

Eric smiled tremulously, then bucked up. “Right, boss.”

For a moment Crowley thought he was going to salute him. But instead he sprang into action, circling the Bentley and yelling, “AND NOW COMES THE UNHOLY BAPTISM BY SULPHUR. JOIN ME, O DAMNED ONES, IN SPEAKING THE SATANIC PRAYER OF CURSING.”

He circled back to Crowley, who patted him on the back. “Great job, kid. Carry on with the uh, damning then.”

Crowley took a moment to breathe. Then, he flexed his shoulder muscles and his great, glossy black wings manifested. He preened a bit as he heard an audible gasp from the nuns. He nodded at Eric, and the younger demon led the nuns in prayer: 

_ “We gather in unholy unison as we witness the sacrifice and cursing upon this most wretched blessed Bentley…” _ and so forth.

One by one, Crowley stood before them and prepared to pluck his feathers from his wings. There had to be nine, an unholy number, and all from his left ( _ sinister _ , in Latin) wing. And they had to be large feathers. The primaries and the secondaries, the most painful ones to pull out. They were attached to skin and bone, and essential to flight. They’d grow back, but Crowley would not be able to fly for months.

He took a deep breath and took hold of the first primary. as Eric and the nun intoned, “ _ Et Nunc Sacrificium! _ ” It was going to get bloody irritating, that bunch yelling “And now the sacrifice!” in Latin every fucking time he yanked a feather. He steeled himself and pulled hard... 

The pain was excruciating, and it could almost be compared to pulling out a fingernail for a human. He bit back a cry, not wanting to appear weak in front of Eric and the nuns. The barb of the plucked feather had a bit of skin and blood on it. His wing throbbed. Only eight to go.

Finally the feathers were plucked. His left wing pulsed with pain. Carefully he folded his wings back into the ethereal plane, which offered a bit of relief. 

Then, one by one he dipped each feather into the pot of bubbling sulphur, like a demonic aspergillum. He stood on the running board and methodically flicked the hot stinking liquid from his feathers over his beloved Bentley. He made his way round the whole of the car, his long arms reaching over the top and everywhere. As the nuns kept chanting things in Latin, he spoke lovingly to his car. With each flick of a feather, he said, “Come on, my beauty,” or “Come back to me, love, you can do it.”

Finally, it was done. The sprinkling finished, he took a deep breath and went to join the circle. They grasped hands and intoned in unison, “By Satan’s Unholy Grace, we await,” chanting it over and over.

All was silent and dark. There was no sign of life from the Bentley. Crowley’s heart pounded in fear. He was glad for his sunglasses just then.

Suddenly the Bentley lit up from the inside, an eerie reddish glow emanating from the car. Crowley opened his senses, feeling for any demonic vibrations coming from the Bentley. At first, there was only a hint of it. And then, suddenly, his senses were flooded with it… that particular connection that he shared only with his Bentley.  _ His _ Bentley, not that Pet Sematary-resuscitated-blasphemy that had burned his arse just an hour ago. Because the glow from the Bentley was not coming from the interior lights, or from the sulphur. No, it was particularly, distinctly  _ demonic _ .

Then, the headlights switched on. And just a fraction of a second later, music blasted from the Bentley’s speakers. It was a sound more heavenly than any Christian rock or church hymn. For Crowley, it was the most Divine song he’d ever heard, and behind his sunglasses there were tears of joy in his eyes as the old girl played Queen for him….

_ “Ooh, you make me live _

_ Whatever this world can give to me _

_ It's you you're all I see _

_ Ooh, you make me live now honey _

_ Ooh, you make me live _

_ Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had _

_ I've been with you such a long time…” _

As she sang (because Crowley was convinced it was actually his girl singing to him, serenading him with love and gratitude), the ash fell off her to reveal her demonic beauty. 

_ She was back. The old girl was back. _ She shone beautifully for him, practically glowing in the moonlight. 

Reputation be blessed, he had to reach under his glasses to wipe away the tears of joy.

Finally he and Eric slipped back into the Bentley after thanking the nuns, who soon enough were off chattering together in a cluster like a brood of hens. Grace had insisted on giving him a card for a free car waxing as he left. Once in the car he blew on it, and it turned to ash in his fingers.

He and Eric drove off, a demonic job well done.

Crowley had never felt like this, not even when flying. Once again, his beautiful girl was back and purring like a kitten as they cruised down the road. Even the throbbing pain in his wing couldn’t touch his absolute joy. The Bentley continued to serenade her demon with Queen, this time playing a love song.

_ “Oh, the machine of a dream, such a clean machine _

_ With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam _

_ When I'm holding your wheel _

_ All I hear is your gear _

_ With my hand on your grease gun _

_ Mmm, it's like a disease, son _

_ I'm in love with my car, gotta feel for my automobile…” _

They drove on for a bit when Crowley turned to Eric.

“Er, hey, thanks Eric,” he said awkwardly. He owed the demon a debt of gratitude, really. “Can I pay you back somehow? Buy you a spot of late dinner?”

“Oh thanks, Boss,” Eric said, surprised and happy. “I am kinda hungry.

“Well,” Crowley grinned, “How about four fried chickens and a Coke? Or if you’re not that hungry, some dry white toast?”

Eric frowned, puzzled. “Why would I want dry toast, Boss? And I don’t think I could eat four whole chickens.”

Crowley sighed. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless, this one.

“Never mind,” he said. 

Eric munched on some health biscuits from his MLM sample bag, and they drove the rest of the way in silence. 


	6. Joy ride (ILLUSTRATED)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: The Bentley may be fixed again, but Crowley is still disgruntled with Aziraphale over the entire debacle. He’s been singed, embarrassed, lost feathers and been talked at incessantly by chattering nuns. The angel hasn’t heard the last of this…  
> —————  
> Kindly illustrated by [Miele_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite)

“Crowley, _honestly_ ,” said an exasperated angel. Crowley had finally decided to come round the bookshop the past couple of days, after two weeks of giving Aziraphale the silent treatment. He resumed his usual spot, sprawled on Aziraphale’s cushy sofa as the angel fussed about in his tiny kitchen area.

“What?” Crowley was all wide-eyed innocence.

“Crowley, I know perfectly well what you’re doing.”

“And what is that, angel?” Crowley lifted his eyebrows in feigned innocence.

Aziraphale huffed as he pointed to the kettle on the stove. “The kettle whistles, I pour up the water for a nice hot cuppa, and _ice cold water_ comes out.”

“Stove must be on the fritz.” Crowley shrugged. 

“And yesterday I brought home some lovely fresh-baked pastries from my favorite shop. They were soft and scrummy looking. And then when I plucked one out of the bag just moments after arriving home, it was hard as a rock. I could have used it to pound a nail into the wall. I was so dreadfully disappointed.” He pouted to demonstrate.

Crowley’s mouth twitched just a bit. “Sounds like the bakery is off their game.”

“And yesterday every time I reached for my new volume of Renaissance poetry, it turned into a book of dirty limericks.” He glared at Crowley.

“Right, well that was me.” 

“They were ALL you, you foul fiend! This is your payback for the Bentley. You know I feel awful about it, Crowley. I do wish you could somehow forgive me.”

And then Aziraphale pulled out the big guns. He gazed sorrowfully at Crowley with that “how-could-you-be-mad-at-me-look-at-my-big-blue-puppy-dog-eyes” expression.

Crowley internally growled. Damn the angel, that face had gotten him into more trouble…

_Grrrrrrrrr, fine._

“Fine, angel,” he managed. 

Aziraphale stared at him expectantly.

“I…I suppose I forgive you.” 

Crowley said it as though it were painful, which it just about was. Forgiveness was not demonic. But then he reckoned he was a pretty shite demon for the most part. The Satanic ritual had been the most infernal thing he’d done since inventing selfies. 

“Do you really, Crowley? Do you mean it?” the angel asked earnestly, his blue eyes wide. He certainly knew how to work it.

Crowley heaved a huge, put-upon sigh. He supposed he’d tormented the angel enough.

_Fine._

“Yes, yes, all right. How can I stay mad at you when you’re doing all...all that?” He waved in the general direction of Azirphale’s face.

“Oh,” beamed Aziraphale. “Thank you. My dear, I’m so relieved...”

“All right, angel. Let’s let bygones be bygones. How about I take you for a spin in the newly restored, re-demonized Bentley? We can pack a picnic, take it to the park.”

“And you’ll drive at a normal rate of speed?”

“Of course, angel.”

“For _humans_ , Crowley?” he asked 

“Look. Angel. Like I said, bygones be bygones and all that. Come on, then. They’re having a concert in the park today.” He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, and the angel beamed at him.

“Oh, splendid,” he said. “I’ll just put together our lunch, then.”

Aziraphale bustled into the tiny kitchen area and put together a picnic basket. He just happened to have the makings for sandwiches, and he threw in some fruit and biscuits to round it out. 

It was a lovely day as Aziraphale climbed into the passenger seat of the Bentley, happily clutching the picnic basket. He sat there wriggling with it in his lap.

“Buckle up, angel.”

“Oh yes, of course. Seatbelt safety and all that.” Aziraphale sat the picnic basket carefully at his feet and buckled himself in.

The instant his seatbelt clicked into place, Crowley broke into a demonic grin and planted his foot to the floor. The Bentley launched off in a squeal of tyresmoke, the angel found himself shoved firmly back in his seat and grabbed at the door handle for something to hold onto, eyes wide.

Crowley charged at a gap between two busses that wouldn’t even have accepted the best credit card and bent physics around them as they squeezed through it at 60mph. Then he double clutched and changed down, mashed the throttle again and accelerated away, changed up, hoofed it, changed up again and they were screaming along, dodging through traffic, weaving onto the pavement and back again, charging through red lights and chicaning between the other vehicles on the junction in defiance of all laws of the known universe as Crowley shrugged off the kind of G forces that would leave even the most experienced RAF pilot unconscious in G-LOC. 

This wasn’t normal Crowley driving, this time he was _really_ going for it, the speedo had left 90mph behind a long time ago, it had surged past 120 and now the speedo had run out of numbers. The needle was quivering off the end of the dial. The entire car was shaking around them, the engine screaming, as was Queen. “Driven by you” by Brian May was wailing from the sound system. Crowley was laughing, his knuckles white on the wheel. The fluffy steering wheel cover and seat covers had long since been banished, as had the driving gloves. 

They thundered down an underpass, Aziraphale alarmed at the huge queue of traffic ahead of them, and then gravity shifted and they were _sideways_ , roaring along the wall at ninety degrees to the rest of the world, despite the fact that Crowley could just as easily have miracled the traffic away, he must have chosen to defy gravity simply to scare the angel more. Aziraphale tried not to swear. He clung on for dear life to anything in reach. 

“CROWLEY!” he yelled “ _PLEASE_ slow down, you’ve made your point, I’m _sorry!_ Just please put us back on the ground again!” Crowley grinned and swerved around a sign projecting from the wall, then carried on. Only when the tunnel ended did he allow the Bentley to hit the road again and sped onwards. Aziraphale suddenly realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach what road they were on. Buildings and junctions were zipping past almost too fast to see, but he could discern Whitechapel coming up on the left and he knew with a terrified inevitability where Crowley was headed to, and what the demon probably had in mind. 

“Crowley, please, no, please dear, I’m begging you, not that, _anything_ but that, please…”

They screeched past the Tower of London and Aziraphale took in the sight ahead of them in terror. He was right. Crowley was really going to do it. It wouldn’t be the first time by any stretch of the imagination, but it would be the first time with the angel on board. 

“Crowley _please!_ I’ll do anything, I swear, just please _don’t_ …” He grabbed suddenly at the demon’s thigh, which sent a sudden jolt of awareness through Crowley. He stared down at the angel’s hand gripping his thigh in shock, and slammed on the brakes, coming to a full stop in a cloud of tyre smoke. He continued to stare at Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh. 

Ahead of them, Tower Bridge, which had been opening to let a tall ship through, continued to swing upwards. They had almost been at the start of the already half open bridge. 

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale. 

“...Ngk.” He whimpered. 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, eyes wide, breathing hard. He ever so slowly tried to release his death grip on the demon’s leg. But then before he could lift his hand away, Crowley quickly put his hand on top of the angel’s. Their eyes met. Annoyed taxis beeped as they swerved around the Bentley stopped in the middle of the road. Crowley ignored them. Aziraphale’s mouth was open, eyes wide. He dropped his gaze to his hand as well, where it was covered by Crowley’s. He swallowed nervously. 

“Um…” The angel began, hesitantly. He looked back up at Crowley, whose eyes were also open wide, darting about nervously. The demon bit his lip and opened his mouth to say something, lost for words, then shut it again, looking helpless. 

Aziraphale came to the rescue. “Uh, I mean… thank you for not jumping the bridge, dear. Should we, perhaps, call a truce?” Crowley gulped and nodded stiffly.

“Uh… truce, yeah, right. Yup. Sounds good, um…” He looked down at the angel’s hand still on his thigh, and his own on top of it, uncertain what to do. He didn’t want to take his hand away. Aziraphale tried a gentle reassuring squeeze. Crowley found himself melting somewhat. He tentatively squeezed back slightly, then looked up again to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. 

Neither had noticed that when they screeched to a halt that the music had as well, until suddenly the sound system barked into life again, and Queen’s “Good old fashioned lover boy” burst from the speakers, making both of them jump. Crowley glared at the stereo and growled under his breath. “I suppose you think that’s funny, do you?” he hissed at the car. Aziraphale laughed, an honest, open laughter that had Crowley staring at him in surprise. 

“My dear, I think she has the right of it, you know.” The angel turned his hand up under Crowleys, grasped it, then lifted the demon’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles gently. “I’m sorry for everything, my dear, please allow me to make it up to you properly.”

Crowley nodded in a trance. “Anything you like, Angel” he breathed. Aziraphale didn’t let go of his hand, but did reach up his other hand to touch the demon’s cheek gently.

“Would it be terribly forward of me to ask if I may kiss you, Crowley?” Crowley laughed at the absurdly old fashioned phrasing and shook his head gently. 

“‘Course not, Angel.” 

Aziraphale edged closer, leant forward, closed his eyes and brought his lips to meet Crowley’s with a sigh of contentment. Crowley melted into the kiss happily. He wondered if all he’d had to do all along was threaten to jump Tower Bridge with the angel in the Bentley to get this result. If he’d known _that_ he’d have done it _yonks_ ago. 

They broke off with relieved smiles. “So…,” Crowley said brightly. “Picnic?”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly. “Not the park though, love. I think perhaps somewhere a little outside of London, a little more remote maybe…” He left the implication hanging in the air with a sly wink and let his hand drop back to Crowley’s thigh with a smile. 

Crowley shoved the car back in gear again with a satisfied smirk. “Right you are, Angel.”

As they drove off, Crowley couldn’t help but prod the accelerator a little harder briefly for the sudden surge of power (which he just as quickly eased off again), just to feel Aziraphale’s hand tighten slightly on his thigh again. He silently resolved to do this as often as possible in future, with a grin. 


End file.
